


One Gray Morning

by sterlinglee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Datekou, Gen, Shaggy Dog Story, i can't believe that's actually a tag how wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:04:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlinglee/pseuds/sterlinglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, <em>Futakuchi's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day;</em> or; <em>How Onagawa Tarou Made Everyone Late for School</em></p><p>This is a shaggy dog story about gardening.  Onagawa loses his science project, Futakuchi throws himself in front of the bullet, and no lessons about teamwork are learned.<br/> <br/><em>“No,” Futakuchi says.  He tries to drag Onagawa back behind the board, but his teammate’s wiry muscles make this difficult.  Somewhere amid the foot-scuffing and puddle-splashing and waving elbows he realizes that somehow circumstances have conspired to make him the reasonable one in this situation.</em></p><p>
  <em>It really is a shit day.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Gray Morning

It’s pissing rain when Futakuchi rolls out of bed at 5:40 A.M. and attempts to find his way into his school uniform without opening his eyes. His mother scoots him out the door twenty minutes later and when his shoes go _squish_ in the puddle of wet leaves in the storm drain at the edge of the yard, he knows it’s going to be one of those days. 

The umbrella his mother shoved into his hand is one of those fancy transparent ones, and through its slick dome he watches the clouds do absolutely nothing overhead. They are not moving. They are locked in place and emptying their guts down on him, out of personal spite probably. While he’s staring up at the sky he steps in another puddle.

He makes it to the station on time, though. His stop is early up the line and most Datekou students aren’t on their way to school this early anyway—Coach Oiwake has maintained the volleyball team’s strict morning practice schedule since time immemorial, or at least since the early 2000s. It being this kind of day, he’s perfectly content to stand at his usual spot with all higher functions on standby until the lady on the PA announces that his train is here.

First, though, another train comes. He vaguely registers the _whoosh-hiss_ of the doors opening, and then somebody says, “Oh, Futakuchi! Thank god—get over here, will you?”

“Onagawa?” Futakuchi says. ”What are you even doing here?”

“Shh, not so loud,” Onagawa says as the train he just left pulls out of the station. “Hold up a sec. I need your help with something.” He glances around and makes a _come here now_ gesture that just adds to the overall impression of shiftiness. His hair is not agreeing with the weather.

There is nothing to do besides wait for the train, so Futakuchi goes. Onagawa looks more agitated than Futakuchi’s ever seen him, which is to say that he looks mildly agitated. “I’m in a little trouble,” he says, his usual drawling tone at odds with the announcement. “Some people are after me. Also I lost my science project.”

Futakuchi latches onto the second part as something he can understand. “That’s like fifteen percent of our final grade,” he says. “We’ve had it assigned for a month. How do you lose it?” A terrible thought occurs to him. “When you say _lose,_ do you mean you _lost_ it, or it _got away?_ ”

Onagawa stares. “Is that what you think of me,” he says finally. 

“Most of the time I don’t know what I’m supposed to think of you. Just—tell me your science project isn’t alive.”

“Of course it’s alive,” Onagawa shakes his head impatiently. “I—shit. Shit. Come on, hide.” He grabs Futakuchi’s arm and yanks him back behind the electronic arrival/departure board. When Futakuchi follows his gaze, he sees an elderly woman in a pink rain coat coming up the platform. “Mrs. Ayashima’s here already?” Onagawa mutters. “They’re moving faster than I thought. I guess Obara couldn’t stall them all.”

“Wait, what?” Futakuchi tries to yank free. “Stalling who? And how’d you get Obara—”

“He gets to borrow Dual Blade Reckoning for a month. He’s gonna destroy my high score, I can see it already.”

Obara is a good team player, but in private matters he is relentlessly mercenary. His snacks, errands, and neatly categorized notes are available only on the promise of later favors, and for Onagawa to be willing to lend out his new copy of Dual Blade Reckoning—

“What is going _on_ ,” Futakuchi mutters. He wonders why he feels the need to lower his voice. Just then, a train arrives. The lady on the platform passes them and keeps moving, swinging her head from side to side in a way that kind of freaks Futakuchi out.

“Please stand clear of the moving doors,” says the PA lady. Onagawa peers out from behind the board, shoving Futakuchi back.

“That’s my train,” Futakuchi says. “Pantalons, you fucker. Don’t make me late for practice.” 

“This is bigger than that,” Onagawa tells him. He’s still leaning out from behind the schedule board. “Hey—is that Aone on that train?”

“Leave him out of this,” Futakuchi hisses. “You still haven’t told me what’s actually happening here. Who’s Obara stalling?”

“Hey!” Onagawa whisper-shouts across the platform. “Aone! I need your help.”

“ _No_ ,” Futakuchi says. He tries to drag Onagawa back behind the board, but his teammate’s wiry muscles make this difficult. Somewhere amid the foot-scuffing and puddle-splashing and waving elbows he realizes that somehow circumstances have conspired to make him the reasonable one in this situation.

It really is a shit day.

Onagawa gets free and darts out to drag Aone behind the board. “Morning, Aone,” he says.

“Why did you get off the train,” Futakuchi says.

Aone shrugs. “Something’s wrong?” he says.

Onagawa gives him the rundown, or at least the same set of ominous hints and half-explanations he gave Futakuchi. Aone nods in polite incomprehension. He’s too nice to tell people when they sound crazy, which is why Futakuchi hangs around to do it for him.

“So,” Onagawa tells them. ”I waited a little too long to start my project and ended up having to scrounge around for materials. I had the thing all ready to go this morning—tank, thermostat, all that. But now the aunties are after me and I really need that fifteen percent of my grade, okay, so it’d be great if you guys could just help me out here.”

“Did you just say ‘aunties?’” Futakuchi asks. “Aunties are after you? Pantalons, you _fucker_.”

Aone makes an abortive gesture and drops his big hands by his sides, apparently not up to the task of articulating what’s on his mind. “And just give it to us straight: is your project some kind of abomination we’re going to need to fucking capture,” Futakuchi translates. He may have taken liberties with the wording. Aone frowns.

Onagawa holds up his hands. “I am not,” he says, “some kind of weirdo. My project is not sentient. _Okay_.”

Futakuchi decides not to point out that they have only Onagawa’s word to take on this. “Then, aunties,” he prompts. 

“The Neighborhood Ladies’ Gardening Association,” Onagawa informs them. “I—come on. We need to get out of here. I’ll tell you on the way.”

Fifteen minutes later, Onagawa’s Google Maps app has led them to a gardening shop a few blocks from Futakuchi’s house. In that fifteen minutes Futakuchi and Aone have learned a lot of things. They have learned that the trembling, fragile livelihood of Onagawa’s science project depends on a sort of chemical misting device most often found at the upper levels of competitive hothouse flower cultivation. The problem is, it belongs to his aunt, who is the president of the aforementioned Neighborhood Ladies’ Gardening Association. She is bringing one of her prize orchids to a show in a nearby town today, and for ease of transport, she needs the fancy mist dispersal thing.

“That flower’s like her child,” Onagawa says. “Still, I can’t help it. My grade’ll be in the tank if I don’t get this project in today. This morning she found me out and flipped her lid, went totally up in the air ballistic. She took my whole project so I figured I better just leg, it, but maybe that made things worse. She’s got all her Association ladies up in arms. I need to get my project back, and hopefully replace the chemical mister, and get to school before science. She can’t get to me there.”

“So you’re gonna see if they sell one here,” Futakuchi says. He is absurdly relieved when Onagawa nods. Some things should stay predictable.

“You guys stand guard,” Onagawa tells them. “I’ll just be a sec.”

It turns out the store doesn’t sell what he’s looking for. Neither does the larger one ten minutes toward the center of town, or the big nursery on the outskirts. Futakuchi put his foot down on this one and insisted they were going to call before trying to make a visit. They should be running laps around the gym right now, but instead they’re sloshing around the rainy streets and looking over their shoulders for middle-aged women brandishing garden shears.

“...You probably shouldn’t have gotten off the train,” Futakuchi mutters to Aone as they set off, following Google Maps again, to a specialty tropical plant store slightly nearer to school. Aone shrugs as if to say, what’s done is done. But Futakuchi can tell he feels guilty about missing practice. He, himself, is not sure how he’s going to explain this all to Moniwa and Coach.

Onagawa’s phone rings. “Obara,” he says promptly. ”You okay?”

Obara’s voice is barely audible on the line. A car goes by and they all sidle away but can’t avoid the rush of water that soaks their legs. “Thanks for trying,” Onagawa is saying into his phone. “We’ll see if we can meet up with you. No, no luck on this end either. Yeah. See ya.”

At Aone’s questioning look, Onagawa informs them that Obara has lost the gardening ladies, and that his aunt was last seen hitting the road and heading in their direction.

“Won’t she look for you at places like this?” Futakuchi says. Onagawa pushes both hands through his disastrously frizzed hair. 

“Of course she will,” he says. “But—hey. We’re kinda out of options here so maybe we need to turn things around. Head into the lion’s den, you know.”

“I don’t like this _we_ ,” Futakuchi says. Aone drops a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he gives an exaggerated sigh to show that despite his complaints, he knows exactly what that means. He can’t just abandon Onagawa on a rainy street to the mercy of a bunch of older women whose hobby involves the liberal use of gardening shears. They are, whether they like it or not, a _we_. He heads inside the specialty tropical plant store with Onagawa, leaving Aone to stand guard outside.

No luck here either. Onagawa and his hair are beginning to look seriously haggard, and when they leave the shop empty-handed Futakuchi is on the verge of making some kind of uncharacteristic and self-sacrificing offer, just as soon as he figures out what that might be. Anything to stop Onagawa from staring around nervously and biting his nails like that. But then they step onto the sidewalk and the thought is all but driven from his mind.

Aone is gone. His green umbrella lies upended in the gutter, filling steadily with rainwater. Around them, all is silent. Futakuchi feels himself tensing up the same way he does when that spooky twang effect plays in horror movies. A chilly drop of rain slides down the back of his neck and he and Onagawa glance at one another.

“They’re here,” Onagawa whispers. His voice is barely audible over the mutter of rain in the empty street. 

“No—you know what, you can give that shit a rest,” Futakuchi snaps. “Wrong genre, so I don’t want to hear it. He probably followed a stray cat or something. We’re just—we’re going to find him and then we’re going to school.” 

Onagawa’s face falls, and then he shrugs. “Whatever, okay. We had a mood going there for a second though. Just call him.”

Futakuchi calls Aone. There’s no answer, but he hears a cheerful stock ringtone coming from the lot behind the gardening shop. He stuffs his phone back in his pocket and rounds the corner with Onagawa at his heels. 

Aone is helping a middle-aged woman into the front seat of her car. As they get closer Futakuchi hears her say, “—such a nice young man, to drop everything and come over to help me up. My balance isn’t what it used to be, that’s for certain—”

At the sound of their splashing footsteps she and Aone both turn to look at them. 

“Shit,” says Onagawa.

“ _Tarou_ ,” the woman says. “So this is where you ran off to.” Abruptly, her expression is thunderous. Aone blinks in alarm.

“I can explain,” Onagawa says desperately. Futakuchi wonders how he expects anyone to believe that one. The aunt grabs something long and pointy from the seat of her car and lurches to her feet and holy shit, was Onagawa actually on to something when he made it sound like the damn gardening mafia? 

“Ma’am,” Aone says, holding his coat over the aunt’s head and walk-trotting awkwardly alongside her. Because the thing she’s carrying is her umbrella, doing double duty as a crutch. Of course. “Uh, ma’am. You should. You should sit—” 

The aunt is hobbling towards them at alarming speed. Onagawa has started muttering rapidly under his breath and glancing wildly back and forth. Futakuchi takes a deep breath and shakes the water off his own umbrella.

“Pantalons,” he says. “Get behind me. I’ll do the talking.”

Onagawa looks at him. “You’d really—”

“Let’s not have a moment,” Futakuchi snaps. “Now shush.” He steps into the aunt’s path and cranks his Handsome Neighborhood Boy charm up as far as it will go. The wattage of his smile stuns her briefly, and she stops, if only because he’s right in her way.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he says. “Why don't we get in out of the rain and try to talk this out?”

This is how they end up standing in the specialty fertilizer aisle of the tropical plant store, conducting war negotiations.

“Let’s make this quick,” Futakuchi says soothingly. “Onagawa-kun only had the best intentions, you know. He was inspired by all the, the work you do with your own flowers. And he wanted to show his science teacher his personal best.” 

Futakuchi plants one foot on top of Onagawa’s and stomps discreetly until Onagawa nods and mutters, “Mm-hm, really inspired. Just—you know, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, et cetera.”

“I’m pretty sure that what you’re calling imitation, I’d call theft,” the aunt says. Is it possible for a woman over fifty to look that much like Oda Nobunaga about to set fire to the enemy camp? Aone sidles away from her.

“Ah,” says Futakuchi. Time to change tactics. “Well. In that case, he’s _totally_ willing to make it up to you.” Onagawa makes a noise that ends in a puff of air when Futakuchi elbows him in the stomach. This is as much as he can do, he figures. He’s already ditched practice, gotten soaked, almost been sacrificed to the requirements of genre, and now it’s time to make good. Onagawa could probably stand to learn a lesson from all this.

The aunt arches an eyebrow. “Depends on what he’s willing to do,” she says. “I might consider letting him have his project back. Just for the day.”

“ _Compost_ ,” Futakuchi blurts. Smiling like this is starting to make his face hurt. “A dedicated gardener like you, I’m sure you have a lot of…compost to shovel. Or mulch, or something. This guy doesn’t look like much, but he can definitely handle it.” He leans a little harder on Onagawa’s foot.

“Every day after school, for a month,” the aunt raps out, folding her arms. “He’ll restore my old flower beds. He knows where they are.”

“Every other day, for five weeks,” Futakuchi counters. 

“Six weeks. Every weekend.”

Futakuchi pretends to think about it. As long as Onagawa isn’t carrying out his sentence when he should be playing volleyball, it’s probably fine. The guy’s versatile. He’ll live. “That’s tough, but—done,” he says. “Done.”

Onagawa wilts. “Futakuchi,” he mumbles. “I did not authorize you to negotiate on my behalf.”

“Can it,” Futakuchi mutters, slinging a comradely arm around his shoulders. “Forced labor’s not so bad. At least you’re alive.” Aone comes over and looms in what is probably supposed to be a consoling manner.

“Onagawa? That you?” a familiar voice precedes its owner down the aisle. Futakuchi gives Onagawa a last, brotherly smack between the shoulder blades and releases him.

“Get lost on your way here, Obara?” he says.

Obara, as always, looks innocent. Perversely, what’s always bugged Futakuchi about this is that Obara is, in fact, innocent. There’s really nothing hiding behind that face. The guy just happens to be very good at missing the trouble when it happens.

“Not lost,” Obara says, wincing a little. “I had to make _conversation_. With every retiree on Onagawa’s block, I think. Uh, hey. Futakuchi, Aone. What are you guys doing here?”

“Helping,” Aone offers. They stand in the fertilizer aisle in silence for a few moments.

“Uh, Auntie,” says Onagawa. “We’re gonna be late to school, probably. Can we catch a ride?”

They end up crammed together in damp silence in Onagawa’s aunt’s aging Honda sedan, watching the rainy streets go by. Onagawa was supposed to sit in the passenger seat, but Aone’s too tall to be comfortable in the back—instead, he’s riding shotgun and cradling a large potted flower in both hands. Onagawa has his project perched in his lap.

“I feel like I need to ask,” says Obara, of all people. “What’s in that box?”

Onagawa looks down at the cloth-draped oblong in his lap. “Tank, actually,” he says. “It’s a—well, hey, it’s pretty cool, so lemme show you.” He pulls the cloth down into his lap, revealing an aquarium tank whose inner walls are beaded with moisture, crowded with soft foliage and pale, tiny blossoms.

“We missed practice because of your _terrarium?_ ” Futakuchi says. Onagawa gestures impatiently, almost hitting Obara on the ear.

“Biome,” he says. “Not just a terrarium, it’s a, a rainforest biome. Okay.”

Futakuchi ignores him. “Aren’t those things self-sustaining or whatever? Why d'you need that chemical mister thing?”

“Common misconception,” Onagawa says. “Terrariums need input every so often. No true closed system and all that. And since I started so late, the plants needed a jump start, getting the water cycle going. That’s what the mister’s for.”

“Water cycle,” Futakuchi sighs. “Onagawa. It’s raining.”

Onagawa opens his mouth. 

“ _Tarou_ ,” says his aunt. “Say thank you to your friends.” 

They round a corner, and Obara leans into Onagawa who leans into Futakuchi, who gives up and lets his cheek mash against the window. The rainforest terrarium shifts in Onagawa’s lap, and gleaming droplets roll down the glass and disappear into the dirt. After a bit of graceless muttering, Onagawa says thank you. Aone nods solemnly in acknowledgement. The little flowers bob up and down.

**Author's Note:**

> written for datekou week on tumblr (day 2, second years/weather). do you love onagawa tarou? i'm sorry


End file.
